


one week

by daikonjou



Series: a curious case of the man with a unicorn's skull [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fight Club, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daikonjou/pseuds/daikonjou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shintarou moves in with Kazunari. This may not have been the best decision Shintarou has ever made, but it isn't the worst either. Featuring kitchen ambushes, references to Haruki Murakami as "the guy who writes about dicks and jazz," three instances of religion not being taken seriously in the slightest, and a cameo by Ryouta Kise as the secretary who works at Shintarou's office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one week

**Author's Note:**

> this is still quite blatantly [Andrea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaphobia)'s fault for enabling me. Thanks, though.
> 
> crossposted from [tumblr](http://aitsura.tumblr.com/post/48057550482/one-week-kurobasu-fight-club-au-midorima-takao).

Kazunari takes him home to a ramshackle house that’s probably been condemned for years, left standing by virtue of no one bothering to tear it down. Shintarou thinks that it could be worse, for all that it’s a… well, frankly, a dump in comparison to the condo he had. His now-lost condo, scattered to the winds in bits of ash and shrapnel and the wreckage of most of his worldly possessions.

(It’s a fair trade, fair trade for Kazunari’s grey eyes boring into his as Shintarou whispers _please let me stay_ against his mouth. _Please give me a place to stay_.)

His parents would be horrified, or at least his mother would be. His father has vanished on the four winds like the ashes of Shintarou’s condo. Who knows what he’d think. Shintarou doesn’t dwell long on that, not when there are the idiosyncracies of (temporarily) living with Kazunari to deal with.

The first morning, when he tries to leave early to purchase a lucky item, Kazunari ambushes him in the kitchen. “Going somewhere, Shin-chan?”

“I’m going to get today’s lucky item, and then to work,” Shintarou says. Kazunari prowls restlessly around the kitchen in a slightly more grey than white wifebeater and a pair of worn jeans that sit just low enough on his hips to make Shintarou swallow. He shoots Shintarou a look laden with innuendo, tilts his lips upward in a filthy smile, promising all sorts of things that lucky items didn’t usually provide.

“You know, Shin-chan,” Kazunari drawls, “if you watch a TV show for that shit, you’re out of luck. I don’t have a TV in this place. Told you yesterday, though, you don’t need lucky items to go through life.”

“Do you not understand the meaning of ‘man proposes, God disposes?’” Shintarou says, starting to get a little agitated over the notion of going through an entire day without a lucky item. For that matter, staying with Kazunari has completely upended his morning routine. The water running (somehow) in the building is rusty as hell and Shintarou groped without effect for an entire five minutes for his glasses in the morning before he realized they were still on his face.

Kazunari’s smile acquires sharp edges. Shintarou wonders if he’d cut his lips if he tried to kiss him right now, then tries to squash that train of thought. “Have you ever thought what you’d do if you met God?” Kazunari says, and stretches his arms up, yawns with the ease and thoughtlessness of a lion. His wifebeater rides up to reveal a strip of taut skin over muscle. “Because personally, I’d punch him in the face.”

Shintarou sucks in a breath.

“You keep sweating the small stuff, Shin-chan.” Kazunari pads over to stand in front of Shintarou, fisting his hands in Shintarou’s button-down. “Funny, though, I thought you’d be Buddhist. The whole ‘if you meet your father, kill him; if you meet the Buddha, kill him,’ thing. Fucked if I know how it works, though.”

“That’s a very specific sect—” Shintarou manages, and then Kazunari yanks him close enough to bite down on his lower lip until it bled, kisses him. Blood smears over their lips.

“There,” Kazunari breathes, sounding entirely too satisfied. “Take that to work as your lucky item. You’re done with lucky items after today.”

“I—” Shintarou tries, but nothing else will come out of his mouth. Then he leans in to kiss Kazunari again.

*

The second morning, Shintarou brushes his teeth with the rusty water and spits it out with distaste. Kazunari’s up already by the time he gets to the kitchen, drinking the shitty instant coffee Shintarou had picked up on a whim after work the day before.

“You’re not going to get a lucky item, are you?” Kazunari says. “Don’t chicken out on me now, Shin-chan.”

“No,” Shintarou says, and gives up on the idea of leaving early enough that he’ll only be a little late if he tries to go get one before work. He doesn’t know what today’s is either. That’s two days of morning horoscope forecasts he’s missed. The thought makes him twitch, apparently visibly because Kazunari puts down his mug and strolls over to seize him by the shoulders.

“Guess that lip is closing up, isn’t it?” Kazunari purrs, and tugs him down to bite his lip again. The small wound opens up again with a sharp sting as Kazunari’s teeth close on tender, still-healing flesh.

It pulls a small sound out of Shintarou’s throat, one embarrassingly close to a moan.

“Oh? Did you like that, Shin-chan?” Kazunari asks. “Did you like me marking you like this? You won’t kiss anyone else with those lips, will you?”

“No,” Shintarou says.

“No, you didn’t like it?” Kazunari grins.

“No, I…” Shintarou falters, fumbles for words until Kazunari pushes him up against the counter, the chipped and crumbling tile edge and the dishrack digging into his lower back. “No, I won’t kiss anyone else.”

“Isn’t it better to just be honest with yourself?” Kazunari says cheerfully, undoing Shintarou’s belt. “It’s so much more fun,” he adds, popping the button of Shintarou’s fly and pulling down the zipper. “You’re hard from just this? _Someone’s_ got interesting tastes, huh Shin-chan?”

“I have work in an hour,” Shintarou says, and watches Kazunari pull him out of his boxer-briefs. “Aah!”

“You’re so sensitive, Shin-chan,” Kazunari practically snickers. He gives him another firm stroke.

Shintarou shudders under the touch, lips parting a little. “F-fuck,” he says.

“You’re so pretty like this,” Kazunari croons. His grip is just right, the rhythm and the occasional slide of a thumb over the head of Shintarou’s cock precisely what Shintarou likes when he jerks off in the bathroom of another hotel room in another strange city he doesn’t remember leaving for, only the jolt when he wakes up mid-flight. “So pretty, Shin-chan. I want to come all over your face and your glasses, get cum on those long girly eyelashes of yours.”

“Ah, aaah!” Shintarou cries, and he comes before he can help himself, all over Kazunari’s hand. His cock twitches a little in interest as Kazunari raises his jizz-covered hand and starts licking it up. His knees buckle; Shintarou half-sags, half-falls and lands hard on his ass on the cracking faux-tile linoleum kitchen floor. He doesn’t really have it in him to complain, staring dazedly up at Kazunari.

Kazunari laughs, licks off the last of his cum with a long, exaggerated swipe of his tongue. The solitary kitchen light fixture casts a halo around Kazunari’s head. Then he crouches down to squat in front of Shintarou. He bounces a little on his knees, thoughtfully running his tongue over his lips before grinning, sharp to match the predatory gleam in his eyes. “Guess that’s one more thing you can take with you,” he says. “Forget the fucking lucky items. You need some luck? You sure just got lucky. In our kitchen, too.”

“Kazunari,” Shintarou whispers, and swallows. “ _Jesus.”_

“I guess he was an okay kind of guy,” Kazunari says. “I can get behind that ‘water into wine’ shit, but the world ate him up in the end. Suppose I wouldn’t punch him if I met him, but he’s been dead for a couple thousand years so that doesn’t say much.”

“You’re crazy,” Shintarou says, a little awed in spite of himself.

Kazunari snorts. “How’d it go, ‘we’re all mad here?’” He pats Shintarou solidly on the shoulder with his clean hand and straightens up. “So, work, you said?”

“Ugh,” Shintarou says, and tucks himself back in. It takes him another five minutes to fix his clothing and peel himself off the floor.

“That’s the spirit, Shin-chan,” Kazunari says, laughing. “If you ever feel like you’re tired of licking your corporate masters’ boots, on the other hand…”

“There’s something called living expenses,” Shintarou manages, through the pleasant post-orgasm haze fogging his brain.

Kazunari just laughs harder. “You’re not your fucking job, Shin-chan. You don’t even like your job. Besides, you’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out.” He picks up his coffee mug again, takes a swig. “See you later, Shin-chan. Let’s go drinking again later this week.”

*

On the third morning, Shintarou says, “I’m only staying until I find a new place to live.”

“How’s that going?” Kazunari asks idly. He pours milk into a bowl of cereal and doesn’t look up, takes a crunching bite.

“I… I haven’t done much looking yet,” Shintarou admits.

“You might as well just stay here,” Kazunari says.

“It’s hard to get to work on time if you ambush me in the kitchen on the way out,” Shintarou says.

“Someone’s gotta break your lucky item addiction, Shin-chan.” Kazunari crunches another spoonful of less-milk-than-cereal.

“I’m leaving now,” Shintarou says.

“See you later, Shin-chan.”

*

On the fourth morning, Kazunari is nowhere to be seen. There’s a half-drunk cup of shitty instant coffee on the counter next to the dish rack, though, and Shintarou flushes red remembering the sudden handjob from two days prior. It’s the fourth morning since he’s last held a lucky item, though. He tries to remember the one he’d apparently dropped on the flight home, from wherever he’d come from. It was green, wasn’t it? Green and… was it fuzzy or smooth?

“You’re thinking awfully hard about something,” says Kazunari from behind him. Shintarou jumps, flinches guiltily. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I haven’t gone this long without a lucky item in years,” Shintarou admits.

Kazunari blinks, slowly. The corners of his mouth pull upwards. It is not a particularly nice smile, Shintarou notes dimly. “You’re not your fucking lucky items, Shin-chan,” he says, prodding Shintarou in the chest with a pointer finger. “The list of shit you buy even though you don’t need it just because you’re conditioned to want it must be miles longer than the average Joe Schmoe’s, huh?”

“Kazunari,” Shintarou says.

“You probably really need that drink, huh Shin-chan? Maybe we’ll go tonight,” Kazunari says.

(They don’t actually go out that night. Kazunari soliloquizes in the bath with a lit cigarette hanging off his lip, and Shintarou hands him a bottle of beer out of the six-pack he bought on the way back. The bathtub is cool against his back from where he’s sitting on the floor. Kazunari doesn’t say _thank you_ , but he caresses Shintarou’s wrist with soap-slick fingers and drinks deep.

The smell of soap and alcohol and smoke lingers well after Kazunari tugs the chain of the drain plug and lets his bathwater swirl down the drain. When Shintarou kisses him later, he bites down on Shintarou’s lip and smears blood over their mouths anew.)

*

On the fifth morning, Kazunari says, “You should just stay here. Forget this looking for a new place nonsense. It’s not like you don’t have a place to sleep.”

“… Okay,” Shintarou says.

Kazunari smiles at him. It’s uncomfortably smug, like he’s saying _see, wasn’t that easy?_ It really was that easy, too.

(He fills out the appropriate paperwork at work, bites absently at his lower lip as he writes in his new address. Leaves the section labeled _reason for change of address_ blank. The news has probably traveled around enough anyway, and he’s still showing up for work so at least there aren’t any undue rumors about him being caught in the explosion or anything.)

*

On the sixth morning, Shintarou gropes around for his glasses for a full five minutes before finding them still on his face. Then again, Kazunari has been the single greatest disruption to nearly every single one of his routines that he’s ever come face-to-face with, but for all that he has utterly wrecked the way Shintarou spends his mornings there’s something alarmingly magnetic about him that compels Shintarou to stay.

There’s quite a bit of banging coming from the basement, which is probably Kazunari beating the water heater that’s gone on the fritz again with a wrench or something. Abruptly, the banging noises stop, and Kazunari trots up the stairs soaked in sweat and grinning impishly. (Shintarou is beginning to think this is one of Kazunari’s default settings, the smile like he’s up to mischief that he’ll never get in trouble for.)

“Good morning,” he says, because it occurs to him that he hasn’t actually said it yet, six mornings into their cohabitation.

“Good morning, Shin-chan,” Kazunari says, standing on tip-toe to get a bowl from a cabinet shelf. “Sleep well?”

“Yes,” Shintarou says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Oh good.” Kazunari licks his lips and pushes Shintarou up against the counter. Shintarou makes an undignified squeaking noise, which is… really undignified, given that he’s just about seven and a half inches taller than Kazunari.

“Stop,” Shintarou says, “stop, stop, I have to go to work—”

Kazunari _pouts_. It’s an unexpectedly childish expression, but he lets go of Shintarou, takes a step back so he’s not hemming him in. “Too bad,” he says, sounding less affected than the pout would have initially led Shintarou to believe. “Maybe later.”

“Maybe we’ll get that drink later,” Shintarou says, as an olive branch.

The smile that tilts Kazunari’s mouth suggests the olive branch wasn’t necessary at all. Then he leans in, tugs Shintarou’s face down to bite at his mouth again.

(“You should start using chapstick,” the blond secretary says as he passes Shintarou’s desk, tumbler of coffee in hand. “Your lip’s always bleeding lately, and it’d stop if you just moisturized properly! I could hook you up with some, I started using this brand recently that’s really good—Midorimacchi? Are you listening to me?”

“Don’t you have work to do, Ryouta?” Shintarou busies himself with the stack of reports in his inbox. Mostly accident reports, grisly details from fatal collisions, which parts malfunctioned how. It didn’t require much thought, just an ability to keep the numbers straight and mark on the fly whether the figures were worth making recalls on or not.

“You’re always so cold to me, Midorimacchi!” Ryouta pouts, but strolls off back to his own desk soon enough.)

*

On the seventh morning Kazunari’s quiet, drinking a cup of shitty instant coffee without a word. Shintarou leaves him be and thinks almost longingly about the last time he watched the morning horoscope show. Then the books that burned when his condo exploded. He hadn’t finished _1984_ yet, and re-reading Murakami was going to have to wait until he had the time or the energy to go find a copy of any of his books.

“You ever wonder what the world would look like if you took it in like a Calcutec?” says Kazunari, all of a sudden. Shintarou starts, stares at him in surprise. “Jumbled it up and spat it back out as numbers?” Kazunari continues, as if this isn’t totally out of the blue. “What would you look like, shuffled and encoded? What would I look like?”

“People are too complicated to shuffle,” Shintarou says, after a second of stunned silence.

Kazunari shrugs. “Maybe. People aren’t always complicated, though. Humans can be pretty simple.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like in the middle of a fight,” Kazunari says. “When you fight someone, the other guy’s not thinking deep thoughts. They’re thinking _fuck, how do I avoid getting the shit beat out of me?_ Everything’s boiled down to _how do I not get killed_ , because we’ve all got that animal side that doesn’t give a shit about anything that doesn’t let it survive to eat, fuck, and sleep another day.”

“So you’re saying that a Calcutec could shuffle a human in fight-or-flight mode,” Shintarou says.

“Oh, probably not just any Calcutec,” Kazunari says. “Maybe the last Calcutec with the complete scenario buried in his head, though with the time he had probably not even him.”

“I didn’t know you read Murakami.”

Kazunari grins. “I’d sum him up as the guy who writes about dicks and jazz, but I guess I wouldn’t punch him if I met him. Seems like an interesting enough guy.”

“What is with you and punching people?”

“You ever been in a fight, Shin-chan?” Kazunari looks at him through his eyelashes.

“No.”

“Really?” The smile that curves Kazunari’s mouth is unmistakably, unspeakably filthy. “There’s something about an old-fashioned fist fight, you know. Just you and some other guy, finding out who can swing whose fists harder and who yields first, who declares who the bigger, stronger animal. It’s simple. It’s pure. It makes your blood race like nothing else.”

“Show me,” Shintarou says, without thinking. He almost takes the words back, but for the certain gleam that appears in Kazunari’s eyes.

“Let’s hit the bar tonight, Shin-chan.”

“… Okay.”


End file.
